


Pink

by yuwoo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Play, Class Differences, Cunnilingus, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Power Imbalance, Romance, Sexual Discovery, Size Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22633981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuwoo/pseuds/yuwoo
Summary: If Tom had any say, he would not be here, but he has only just gained the Gaunt Seat. It is aberrant for one of his status to not possess a Thrall.Or:Tom thinks sex is gross and hates his massive penis. He finds out his favorite color is pink because it's the color of Hermione's privates.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 25
Kudos: 323





	1. Pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 is the full story while Chapter 2 provides background information. 
> 
> Please heed the tags. There is _a lot_ of sex and vulgarity later on, so read at your own discretion.

If Tom had any say, he would not be here, but he has only just gained the Gaunt Seat. It is aberrant for one of his status to not possess a Thrall. 

He feels no regret removing the former one. That the late Lady Merope Gaunt succumbed to her brother's rapine only to miscarry and perish heightened what had once been jealous abuse from Tom's uncle towards her Thrall to vulgar superfluity—Tom had merely hastened what was inevitable. Anything Tom can feel towards his unfortunate namesake is that of lost property: a waste and, perhaps, a pity—only that his mother was fond of him.

Ultimately, it was a boon the Thrall lived and expired hidden away from the sight of the other Families. No one could make note of any... hereditary resemblances.

As for his uncle. Well. Tom doesn't regret a thing; he is glad the most loathsome excuse for a wizard is gone. Tom had spent too much of his life in the walls of the Gaunt Family castle in solitude to welcome the presence of a sibling—let alone one that would be an abomination—so he is glad nothing came of that as well. He is only embittered Merope yielded to Morfin and died for it.

No matter—it is all for the best. Tom is better off alone.

That is the crux, for alone he cannot remain. He must make a selection if he wishes to move unobtrusively now that he has been elevated to his Seat. It chafes.

Tom approaches Hogwarts. The air hints at the first bloom of warmth and viridescence as spring approaches. The sun is just past the ides of the sky. Fairy lights by the castle's threshold float over those flocking to attend. Families susceptible to the mawkishness of their youngest have already rushed in to inspect the pre-bid Thralls: those their progeny met in their early years of education and deemed desirable. 

The Mudbloods and rare half-bloods with no Family Claim have been segregated from the other prospectives to the perimeters of the Great Hall, and it is from this assortment of the Unclaimed that Tom will have to make his choice. The Thralls stand with naught but their wands, now outfitted with the limiters keeping them from the more complex magics. They would wear robes on any other day, but the high-borns must evaluate them in their entirety for the Auction. 

Tom sees the Lords Avery and Lestrange, who nod in respect, as is Tom's due. Lord Nott stands with them, somehow thinner and more dour-faced than last Tom saw him. Tom had received word of the deceased Lady Nott shortly after his own mother's passing, so Tom assumes Nott is in want of a spare for his son, who hovers nearby, wan-faced.

He circulates. It is interminable.

When he is a half-turn through, idly skimming the crowd, he senses—no, he hears, for it is a loud fuss of a voice echoing in his head—

 _It's just intent and will: intent, will, and visualization of the result—perhaps with focus materials. Something inherently magic, something to channel it. It doesn't have to be perfect, just strong enough to affect the limiter's enchantment._

Tom wades through the masses. He plans to master his mind magic, but he must first hunt the appropriate texts and has yet to do so given his other endeavors. This voice, however, is intrusive enough that he can trace it to its source, and growing all the more vociferous. 

_—maybe a placement to inscribe runes for augmentation? The materials would be rudimentary, so I imagine I should. Ansuz, maybe, for insight or inspiration. Nauthiz, for need? I wish Harry would stop patting his hair, it is_ vexing _me._

Tom is upon her, for it is a girl, a plain one with a figure—if one may call it such—which is so inappreciable it may never come to match the fullness of the unfortunate hair crowning it. He clears his throat, and the monologue cuts off as brown eyes snap to his.

Mousy little thing.

—

The girl proves dull. She is a swot in the truest sense, a bookish regurgitant. For all that she had initially plucked Tom's curiosity, Tom now finds her tiresome.

He turns her away to his attendants, and he knows she is bewildered by her place in the household as Tom has sought no companionship—loathsome word. 

It concerns him not, so long as he suffers her presence no longer.

—

Until. It is the beginning of the Cycle, and the Families come calling. The high-borns host one another in a tedious pattern more relentless than the turning of seasons, and even Tom must bend to it. His Thrall must be at his side for appearance's sake. 

He calls for the girl—Hermione—and regards her. He has not laid eyes on her in some time, for he has been occupied with restoring the Gaunt library and will suffer no useless, vestigial appendages such as a Thrall underfoot. She appears before him now, and it's the first time he takes note of her face in full.

The House's maids assemble, hands folded in front and heads bowed, awaiting instruction. Tom disregards whatever had caught his attention, for it was fleeting.

"You will have to do something about the hair," he says, and drops his eyes back to his reading, summarily dismissing them. 

He can see the girl linger from the top of his book, but she, too, eventually leaves.

—

The Malfoy get are irksome. Tom doesn't understand how such a line has become so enfeebled. The Family possesses deep reserves of history and information and gold besides. Surely the Lord and his scions are not eschewing any of their Favourites amongst the multitude of flaxen Malfoy Thralls to breed exclusively with their Lady Wives? They are all distant—if not direct—cousins; it is profligacy. 

But Tom endures, for Abraxas Malfoy had bowed to Tom, despite Tom's age, as the Gaunt Lord—and more. The Lord Malfoy knows Tom's Gift for what it means. 

During a lull, Abraxas's heir turns to Hermione.

"It is admirable," Lucius opines, "your dedication to upholding the Family line. Though I must confess, I am perplexed by your..." his lips twist. "Favourite." 

The other Malfoys shift, uneasy. 

"I cannot fathom the traits which merited your attention."

The youngest Malfoy, slouched at Lucius's left, has not once torn his eyes from Hermione. The two appear of similar age and doubtless attended Hogwarts together. He has been mouthing words when he thinks no one sees. In the blond's sneer, Tom recognises the avarice, the desire to _take._ It is easy for Tom to identify such baseness; it surrounded him his entire life.

The girl is not a Favourite. Tom sees no need for one. And, though he doesn't bother to argue the technicality, he cannot have a Favourite when he only has the one Thrall from which to choose. He wouldn't have her at all, if the rest of the bloody nobility would countenance it.

Though. Tom does not share.

There is a yelp, and everyone turns to Young Malfoy, who has his hands slapped over his face. When he lowers them for inspection at his mother Narcissa's inducement, he does so with a wince. His eyes are bloodshot. Tears run down his cheeks. 

There is no one in the audience chamber except Tom who can cast wordlessly. But he did not do it. 

The room's atmosphere strains, and Abraxas makes to intercede on behalf of any perceived effrontery. Tom curbs him by rising to his feet. He hisses to beckon Nagini, and all of the Malfoys—all but Abraxas—suck in a shared breath. No one believes the Gift until they witness it.

Nagini slithers to Tom as she speaks to him. 

_Small. Warm. Good. Mate is near._

She has been saying such things to him since spring, so Tom disregards his Familiar while she continues to hiss at him. 

_Would lay strong eggs._

She goes to Tom's arms, and her head weaves over his shoulder to reach behind him, tongue flickering. With his Familiar in hand, he moves around the chaise to join his Thrall, who had been stood in dutiful attendance at his back. 

It is he who stands behind Hermione now. He carefully drapes Nagini— _Smell, taste, mate_ —over Hermione's narrow shoulders, which are bare for once. Her curls had been smoothed into a twist set high upon her crown.

(Tom had never heard the girl swear until the Cycle came upon them. Her internal diatribe, both at the maids who groomed her and the high-borns who visited, had been diverting.)

He rests his hands upon her shoulders in feigned affection, a demonstration for his visitors. Leisurely strokes an artful lock framing his Thrall's jawline. Nagini's tongue flickers.

 _Clever, yes. Must mate for eggs._

Hermione stands straight, hands behind her back as befits her station. Only Tom can see that they are clenched, as though she is holding something in them. 

The girl's skin prickles with gooseflesh under his hands. 

Tom smiles at his guests, benevolent.

—

The Malfoys eventually make leave, and House Gaunt accompanies them to the castle gates. Young Malfoy trips at the last step and breaks his nose against the carriage window.

Hermione stands demurely at Tom's side, hands fisted at her back.

 _Perhaps,_ Tom thinks, _I should take her to the library._

—

("Now, Hermione, you know that the Steward is meticulous. He will be most unbearable upon finding his stores depleted, and you will face the consequences of your temerity. You know he takes his dual status as Physician seriously. Surely there are less precious materials than dragon heartstring which prove effective."

Tom considers the raw elements of a wand in her open palm. His face does not show it, but he is—amused.

"Whichever grotty hole did you crawl through to get sawdust?"

Hermione is dismissed. 

Her bearing is proper as she walks away, but for the tilt of her jaw and the pink—which has inexplicably subsumed her cheeks.)

—

Hermione aids Tom with his research. It is no risk, given a Thrall's Vows, and beneficial besides. When left idle, her repetitive thoughts circle the breaking of her wand's limiter. It's become exasperating; she surely should have figured a solution by now. 

In contrast, her proximity to parchment brings a certain contented quietude. Her thoughts become less like a voice and more like a soft whirr. Tom finds he doesn't mind when he senses it.

She is with him presently, continuing the inventory of the Gaunt library. Nagini sleeps by the fireplace.

The rustling of pages still. It is enough for Tom, who had been poring through an old family diary, to raise his head. 

"What," he says, for it is not a question. There are ancestral artifacts to be obtained, and a Claim to grasp before it disappears into the shrouded mists of myth and obscurity, Gift bedamned. 

Hermione has her head down over a ledger. Her hair is no longer as dire as it once was, for Tom does not abide unsightliness in the household. It is presently down. It blocks her expression enough that Tom straightens to walk over. She glances at him hesitantly as he draws near. 

"It—it is probably nothing, my Lord," she starts. 

"But it is something enough to halt your fatuous fumblings with my texts."

Two spots of color bloom on her cheeks. Now that he is close, he notices the crown of her head—where it once stopped at his shoulders—is a breadth under his chin. He could turn his head and rest his cheek atop hers if he so chose. 

But why would he do that?

Instead, he glances at the open book and attempts to parse the crabbed handwriting from her side. There are russet stains of dubious provenance smudging much of the lettering. 

"Well?" he prompts, as he disregards a ringlet which has tumbled loose. The maids must be using a blend. He can smell geranium, bergamot, wild orange. A note of cedarwood. Snape is well-stocked in his essences.

The girl's breathing has gone strange. Tom looks askance. He is adjacent to her, and he can feel her elevated respiration against his collar, discern the wet bottom lip upon which she gnaws. Her face has grown positively rosy. She should be competent enough to maintain her own health, but Mudbloods are quite useless at most things. This one is a part of Tom's estate, however, and he will not abide self-negligence. 

"What is your ailment?" he asks, and she starts and stares at him, as she has lately been wont to do. 

Tom reminds himself to locate those texts on the Mind Arts.

"My Lord?" 

_Wants to lay eggs,_ Nagini hisses sleepily, remaining coiled and unmoving by the hearth. 

This is tedious. 

"Your ailment," he repeats, bending to level his eyes with the Thrall. He gestures at her general being, impatient. "Clearly there is something wrong with you. I can see your accelerated breathing, and you have an unflattering tinge. I give allowance to your unfortunate beginnings, but you were brought to magic-folk at Hogwarts and have been of the House Gaunt for almost a full turn besides. I expect you to have some level of self-sufficiency and comportment despite your being the get of Muggles. Your mind is not so dull that your abilities must be brought low as if rolling in the dirt with your sires."

Her cheeks are now incandescent, and her quick little breaths have shifted to heaving. Tom is momentarily distracted. He knows her as a shapeless thing, but her bodice begs otherwise. Has she been pupating?

"There is no _ailment,_ my Lord," her voice bites, and he rips his puzzled gaze over her chest back to her face only to then realise that she is in pique. Hermione turns to face him fully. "My abilities for that which you have assigned me, you will find," she says, "are sufficient—if not more so." 

The ledger, which Hermione had marked with a finger before addressing him, is open once more and being pushed to his chest with extreme prejudice. Tom must fumble to catch it as the girl jabs at a line halfway down the recto then steps away. He reads it. He looks up. 

During his moment of startlement, his Thrall seems to have gathered herself. 

Primly, she says, "As for my comportment, I beg your pardon and will make do to improve upon it away from my Lordship's person." 

And so impertinently turns her back without dismissal to make her leave. 

Tom straightens. "Stop," he says, as she reaches the doors. The girl halts but does not turn around.

He will not apologise, but far be it from anyone to say Lord Tom Marvolo Gaunt does not provide. 

"How is your little project going?" 

Hermione stares at him over her shoulder, bemused. 

"Perhaps," Tom murmurs, as he reverently strokes the page before him, "consider the rune Dagaz, to augment a breakthrough, mm? I don't believe Hogwarts provides the entirety of _Spellman's Syllabary_ in the Thralls' curriculum. I happen to remember that particular rune from reading assignments during my own time there; it signifies a new dawn or awakening." 

Hermione's eyes, which had affixed to his hands for whatever reason, have dashed back to his face as she gapes at him. Tom smirks. 

Her faint freckles appear stark upon her now ashen visage and her mouth thins. She flounders at the entrance before managing the doors and stomps away. 

Tom's low chuckle follows her retreat.

—

Tom has secured the locket. It is a step forward to uncovering his ancestor's secrets and regaining what was lost. The world would know Tom's true birthright. 

But it will take time, and he must ensure that he has all of it to spare.

One of the more tiresome scullery maids is Petrified before him, mute. Her eyes stay wide from the compulsion, and they gather with tears—quite preferable to the batting lashes and titters which typically signal her presence. It is just the two of them; Tom sent Nagini to the gardens, where she is no doubt hunting voles whilst hissing about eggs and mating and the such, as she has been inclined to do of late.

The sacrifice. The artifact. Now: 

"Avada—"

 _"My Lord,"_ a reproachful voice interrupts. 

Hermione materialises from the side, wand raised, as a most adroit Disillusionment dissolves from her form. The spellwork is completely at odds with the capacity of a Thrall's wand.

She stops halfway between Tom and the maid.

"The limiter," Tom notes. 

"Yes," Hermione says. Her wand is still up, but she nods her head to accede Tom's contribution: "Your recommendation proved crucial to my inscriptions." 

"And yet," Tom counters, and quirks his lips, for the limiter remains attached to her wand.

Hermione quirks her lips right back. "It didn't need to break." Her wand wavers. 

It is only when Tom's limbs lock that he ascertains the movement of her wand was not so much wavering as it was the insouciant swishing and flicking of practiced wand casting.

The girl is suddenly enthused. "I adjusted the metal's properties," she imparts, as if she and Tom are sitting in the library sharing their findings from the Family archives, rather than at odds due to her unnecessary intrusion to his proceedings. "First I was looking to crack the enchantment, but then I deemed transmutation would work just as well." 

And, because Hermione is ever a _pedant_ and now has an immovable, albeit unwilling, audience, she carries forth.

"It was quite silly of me, really. Ansuz doesn't just invoke insight or clarity; it magnifies the passing of magic itself. I was stuck on my intention of its use until I tossed out social normatives and approached magic as a _right_ rather than a _privilege_ for someone like myself. And Nauthiz is quite interesting, as well! It does evoke the concept of need, but there are so many connotations that could confuse need with paucity, or worse, a lack—or perhaps abuse—of some ineffable quality, that I am still puzzling over how I got it to work. I'm sure there is something _quite_ helpful in the library to trace its precedents. And Dagaz, yes, thank you, my Lord. It _is_ a breakthrough, but not quite as expected—"

Tom envisions his hand slapped over her mouth and his fingers around her throat.

"I am not here to stop you, by the way," Hermione continues, unaware of his thoughts.

"Oh?" Tom says, the ice in his tone belying his temper. He raises his chin at her wand. "Then what, pray tell, are you here to do?" 

"Posit a modification to your method," she replies, tart. Her wand hand is trembling, however, giving away her true confidence—though it's possible she's shaking not from having cast a spell upon her Lord and Master, but from her academic raptures— Regardless, she goes on:

"I imagine you will split yourself into one of your artifacts, now that you have more than one, and seek more upon managing to open the locket—which you will if you haven't already—" 

Perhaps it is this unwavering conviction in Tom's abilities that jars him. Perhaps it is Tom's affinity for mind magic, which shows him people's intentions and has never shown Hermione's to be untrue. Perhaps it's even how Hermione stands before him, slight frame seeming to fill more space than it should in the chamber, curls—they are loose again, falling in a cascade down her shoulders—gleaming, brown eyes burnished by the candlelight—

Whatever it is, Tom abruptly remembers this is Hermione, and she is his Thrall, his mousy little thing. She is his, and Tom only acquires precious things. 

At some point in his internal stirrings, the Immobulus spell breaks.

And Tom finds himself—

Well, he finds himself feeling something other than anger. 

"—but what then? How many were you planning on?" 

Hermione brings Tom back to their exchange.

"Well," Tom drawls, staying quite still lest he betray his newfound freedom. "There is a significance in numbers, and there are those that have great power." 

"Yes, I imagine so," Hermione says, but she is the only person who Tom spends so much time with, and he knows her, so he interrupts, "You don't imagine so; you know so."

Hermione suddenly smiles, fleeting but radiant. "I know so," she affirms. 

Then, to Tom's alarm, she reaches between her cleavage and into her bodice. Her hand comes back to reveal a scrap of parchment which she motions towards him. He stares at her and stays inert, mind stuck to that image of ingress and egress through her décolletage.

"Oh, just take it," she snaps impatiently when he remains static. She comes to him and grabs his wrist to put the paper in his hand, shedding all doubt that she was unaware he could move once more. The skin on Tom's wrist—the part where Hermione's delicate fingers had touched—tingles. 

Hermione is pointing at the parchment, which Tom has not bothered to even glance at. "It's just _maths._ I'll tell you, since you clearly won't look at it, busy as you are looking at me—as if I would do something to you." 

She's right. Tom cannot tear his eyes from her; he's transfixed.

She's wrong. She's already done something to him.

"So, you give a sacrifice once," Hermione's eyes dart back to the scullery maid who Tom, in his lapse, had all but forgotten. 

"That is half your soul split. Then you halve it again upon your next sacrifice. A quarter. Then another. An eighth." 

Hermione's expression becomes peeved. "Was it not you, my Lord, who extolled to me the sacred connection of mind, body, and soul? Your approach would shred its sanctity. You would _ruin_ yourself," she says, her voice shrill.

Irritation flares through Tom in learned reflex to the tone, but her voice makes him think of her throat, which is a part of her neck, which connects to her rounded, supple— 

_No._

Tom exhales, long, through his nose. He injects frost to his demeanor to palliate himself: "What, then, in your infinite wisdom and expertise, is the appropriate approach, girl?"

The address incites Hermione as it always does; her eyes flash.

("If I am a little girl, then _you_ are but a youth yourself!" she had huffed once. Tom had merely raised an eyebrow, for while it mattered not that they were separated by a bare half-decade, as he was her Lord, he was curious to see if the pink of her face would spread to her neck and chest—intellectually, of course.)

"Thirds," Hermione huffs now. "Thirds, simultaneously. If the sacrifice—and truly, my Lord, a member of your _household?_ —if the sacrifice is instead all three sacrifices at the same time, rather than spaced apart with every little object that you find yourself fancying"—and that is specious, because Tom takes great consideration in his objects—"then you could evenly divide your soul fragment into thirds. You may be able to keep of yourself a full half—and if not then, at least a quarter, depending on how the ritual divides you—and you would have your artifacts imbued with the power of the trinity: mind, body, and soul." 

There is silence after this declaration. 

Tom finds he is uncomfortable. He is staring again. Hermione stands before him, lit, somehow, from the inside, capturing all of his awareness. Her cheeks are pink, and the color is trailing down to her neck, just as Tom imagined it would, just as Tom's fingers would if left of their own volition. He can make out the flutter of her heartbeat.

Tom finds he would benefit from some solitude. 

"There is merit to your theory, I admit," he finally answers, lightly, and Hermione scoffs, tossing a curl away from her face. It is most common.

(It is not becoming at all. It is _not.)_

"I will withhold the ritual."

Hermione subsides, but there is another matter Tom must attend.

"Hermione," he says. "I cannot abide witnesses to this discussion." 

He states it softly, as if a Lord of House Gaunt typically considers a Thrall's sentiments. 

Hermione regards him with an unfathomable kenning in her eyes. 

"It is no matter, my Lord," she says, after a moment, and turns to approach the maid. Then, just as softly as he had spoken to her, she says, "Allow me to do you this service." She bends.

And with a tenderness that Tom has never heard from her before, that will linger with him in nights to follow, Hermione kneels next to the maid (Myrtle, her name is Myrtle, my Lord) and raises her wand to Myrtle's temple:

_"Obliviate."_

—

Days pass and Tom avoids Hermione. He is disappointed by the delay in his plans, and the piece of parchment she left with him sits on his desk. He is disgruntled to admit his—hastiness—but wise enough to appreciate his Thrall's acuity. He commends cleverness. That is not why he avoids her. 

His eyes linger on her whenever she rounds a corner from the other end of a corridor, limned with light. He affects deep concentration upon a task whenever they are in shared quarters but then observes her, narrow-eyed lest she spot him, once her back is turned. He loiters whenever he catches the distinct blend of geranium, bergamot, wild orange—a hint of cedarwood—until it fades.

He cannot be this way forever, but he allows himself some time to recoup and assess.

—

Tom is walking in the gardens with his Steward, appraising the latest reports. Their conversation is interrupted by a distant scream emanating from the latrine shafts which run down the castle wall. 

(The scream actually comes from the dungeons—where Tom has been collecting vagrants for later use, though he only really needs the three—but the southwest-facing garderobes connect to some of them.)

He waves his wand in the general direction. The screaming stops. "Continue."

Snape's beady eyes are reproving. "Scabior's absence will be noted soon enough. He is an effective Snatcher; if the next student body holds fewer Mudbloods, Dumbledore will be displeased. You know there has been an increase in demand for Thralls since the end of the War."

Tom has seen in Hermione's mind the small etching of two adults and a toddler she had kept sewn in the lining of her school robes. The girl's parents had been of some consequence as far as Muggles go—though being of consequence means nothing when one has been dead seven years thence.

"Then Dumbledore may relinquish some of Hogwarts' own to those who are in such need. He has the Elfs as it is," Tom rejoins boredly. "Or perhaps the Malfoys or the Blacks could loosen a few Vows, donate some of theirs. The surplus clearly has served little to their lines."

Snape snorts, and they continue their walk.

—

Sleep has been hard to find.

Tom lies on his back, plagued by a body that will not match its mind. 

He will not look at it. 

He will not touch it.

 _Small. Warm. Good._

Nagini slithers into his chambers, and Tom turns to his stomach, facing away from whence his Familiar's voice came.

He has not done this since he learned what it meant.

_Mate._

In the privacy of his quarters where no one else can see, Tom harshly grips a pillow in his hands. He bites it as he pushes into the bedding beneath him. His hips grind inexorably. The shift of the covers pierces his ears, and his skin feels raw, scraped, the knowledge of his actions flaying him.

He succumbs. Silently, he screams, the muscles in his neck straining, as his shame wrenches through his body, wetting the sheets beneath. He rolls away and gazes up, sightless. 

It feels like immolation.

—

Tom sits at his desk, conscious of Hermione's presence. She had informed him of a scroll hours ago and now all but barged into his bedchamber with it in hand. 

(Tom long ago conceded there were no doors that would impede Hermione from entering a space.) 

"You have not read the missive from House Weasley," she says.

"No, I have not." 

The rustle of the girl's silks signals her approach. Tom feigns engrossment in his records.

"The heir has recently returned to the Family from his travels in Aegyptus and has honed his knowledge of esoteric curses and rituals. As you know, I correspond with the Weasley's youngest son, Ronald. I maintain a rapport with him, of sorts, from Hogwarts." 

"And how," Tom says, rolling an uninked quill between his index finger and thumb, "does this concern me?" The notion of any _rapport_ elicits the urge to burn something. 

"I am sure the Family will be vexed if you do not reply."

"And may they stay so vexed," Tom mutters.

Hermione has drawn to his side. She evidently wants to tell Tom something, possibly about this Young _Ronald._ Tom absorbs himself in trying to Incendio the quill sans word or wand.

"I have thought of your third artifact." 

Tom has made no new inquiries, so he brings himself to raise his head and look at her. 

The girl takes a breath.

She neatens into proper form with shoulders straight and arms back. Then, in her swot's voice, she says, "The maker of the Horcrux gains immortality through the fragmentation of their soul; the vessel housing it becomes nigh indestructible." During this speech, her hands have come from behind her back to worry her robes, which wrinkle under her hands. Her nails are lacquered just enough to accentuate the natural pink.

"My, Hermione, it is almost as though you have read Herpo's works. An admirable recitation," Tom declares, dispassionate, and watches her lips purse into obstinacy. 

"I am your Thrall, am I not?" 

"So?"

"Your Favourite." 

Tom feels his face tic. He has done nothing to intimate any inclination for the services of a Favourite, especially around Hermione. It had been neither a priority nor an interest in the past, and he has kept his recent, intrusive thoughts private. 

"You are my Only," he articulates, and then pauses. It was a mere technicality, but it rang truer than he intended. 

He tries again.

"Hermione," Tom starts, dragging his eyes—which had rebelled him by settling on the dip in her clavicles—to the mirror across the room instead. 

He sucks in his cheeks, feeling tense. Decides on condescension. 

"Hermione. Are you even aware of what it means to be a Favourite?" 

Hermione tips her head to look at Tom, and the annoyed curl on her lip in her insolent regard inspires a sneer of Tom's own, for the fact that he even saw her do so means he was looking at her again, giving particular attention to her mouth; it nettles.

He stands from his desk abruptly and looms over her. The girl juts her jaw and stretches back, as they are close, and her neck is bared to him, and he has no control of his eyes, apparently, for they flick to that line of taut, smooth skin. 

Tom wants this to end.

"What does your place in this household have anything to do with the third artifact you recommend?" 

Hermione regards him, and in the silence, Tom's sight skips from her face to her throat to the soft, elevated tendons which connect to her shoulders. 

He cannot abide this. 

He tears his gaze back to her face, wishing she would leave hence, and then catches upon her eyes: 

They are brown, flecked with the faintest striations of gold, nearly overtaken by the black of her blown pupils which grow ever larger. They shimmer as they draw him in. 

Tom jolts. 

_She knows,_ Tom realises, the discovery sharp as a knife. _She knows I want to touch her._

And then she bites her lip. It's intolerable. 

He burns inside. He wants her to leave. He wants to fling her to the floor, wants to _push_ , press his body down into her, crawl inside her, make her feel what it's like. He is in a fever. A breeze sifts through an open window, but it does not cool him. 

"I would be your artifact," she utters.

That is— 

"You," Tom starts. Stops. 

Her lower lip has been chewed bright pink. There is the sound of laboured breathing. Tom realises it is coming from him but then sees it is also coming from Hermione—her chest heaves. 

Tom clears his throat. 

"You are not an artifact. You are not an _object,_ Hermione," he says, but she is implacable and rebuts him.

"Herpo defines the Horcrux as a vessel holding the soul. A person can be a vessel. _I_ can be one, can I not?"

Her words resonate with Tom's earlier, fervid thoughts of being inside of her; heat sweeps through him anew.

"I am your Thrall. I know my Vows. I am to be by your side, always," and Hermione is tilting her neck now to capture his eyes. "It is my duty, but also my wish, to serve you. To please you, and, in turn, be pleased."

He cannot look at her.

"You said I am your Only. How is that to be, when my time would pass before yours?" 

He shan't look.

"Would you be alone?" he hears her ask, and her voice quivers, as though the idea makes her desolate. 

The quality of it causes Tom to swallow, and this break in his composure incites Hermione to dart closer and lock gazes with him. 

"We could have each other," she persists, low, fervent. "You would be mine—as much as I am yours," and her hand rises, as if to touch. 

Tom is done.

 _Enough._

He glowers and grabs Hermione. His fingers on her upper arms are claws.

" _Have_ each other?" Tom derides, but his voice is harsh like he's swallowed shards. "Be _yours?"_

Inflamed, he spins her violently against him and pushes her backside all along his front, a parody of a lovers' embrace. He presses his cheek to her head while he grips her chin from behind to jerk her face towards the mirror: to make her see.

There is no space between them, but he thrusts his hips forward all the same, into the small of her back, rough, makes her understand what her words wreak. There are consequences, and she should be scared in his arms, little thing fomenting that which she knows not. 

_"This,"_ he thrusts against her again, squeezing her body, "is what you would have?" 

Tom's voice is still hoarse, so he wraps a hand around his Thrall's throat in recompense. Jabs his hips once more. Hunches in, hard prick bullying into the cleft of her buttocks. He leans further and looks at their reflection; in the mirror, he can see the way she disappears in the cage of his body. Her head lolls to the side as though she's lost all strength. Her eyes are glassy. Her mind is— 

Tom fights to retreat from her mind, because it is blaring, and he would lose himself. He would throw her down and _mount her._

He pushes her away, but in his haste, Hermione has instead been pitched towards the bed, robes torn. She stumbles forward until she catches herself on the covers, only to turn around to face him, hair askew.

They stand off. 

Tom rights himself, hands fisted.

"I," Tom enunciates, "will not stop if this progresses. Leave now, and we will never speak of this again." 

Hermione's face is incredulous.

"Surely you jape," she retorts, and proceeds to rip what remains of her tattered outer-garments to the floor. 

Tom stares. 

_"Honestly,"_ and she is flouncing towards him, shedding her underskirt until she is only in her smallclothes and hose. She is ripping _his_ clothes, doublet first, then his tunic, willful. She presses herself towards him, skin dragging against his wrists as she brings his hands to her waist. 

They encircle it almost all the way around. 

He wonders how tight that makes her.

Tom's sight fails him for a moment. His ears ring. He must have transported them to the bed wandlessly, a new feat, for Hermione's back is now against the mattress, her legs hanging off the side. He is braced on his hands, feet planted to the floor, boxing her in. She tries to unlace his breeches but loses patience partway, and when she pushes them down, they catch against Tom's erection. He hisses and leans away. 

He straightens. Sees Hermione stretched out before him, flesh unveiled but for her most private areas. Raises a hand to hold his cock through the leather.

Tom vanishes what remains of his clothing and Hermione's hose, but he keeps her smalls; it is his right to remove them as he sees fit. 

His Thrall stares at his bare torso, eyes hungry. Then she looks down. 

She stills. 

Hermione's Lord stands before her. His cock is long, thick, foreskin pulled back by its rigidity, displaying a tip red and angry. In the falling light, it casts a shadow over her stomach.

Tom gazes down at her, impassive. 

"This is what you would have."

He traps her between his arms. Drops his pelvis down. Lets the girl feel the heavy length jutting between them. It reaches out past her navel, demanding. It is monstrous.

Tom rolls his hips in a slow undulation against the damp, sheer fabric covering her quim: a mimicry of a fuck. 

Hermione's lids flutter and her head cants back. She moans. 

Tom breathes. 

He lowers his head to her neck. 

"Hermione," he sighs, then bites her, and he sucks, hard. Hermione's breath hitches. 

The skin is so thin there, so delicate that he can feel her heartbeat on his tongue, taste of her flesh the salt and sweet. There is the scent of flowers and citrus and forest tangling with the tang of their desire, surrounding him as he buries his face into her curls before he goes back to that vulnerable throat. He mouths at the mark he has left. Murmurs into it:

"This is what you would have?" 

Tom skates his fingers down her collarbone. He runs his questing digits around the swell of a round tit. Deliberates over the weight and warmth of it resting in his palm through the thin linen, then finds a nipple and pinches once, hard. 

"Ah!" Hermione jolts. A leg kicks out from underneath. 

Tom peels the chemise off of her body. The dainty lushness of her breasts invites touch, skin warm and satin. Her areolae entreat attention with their dusky rose. The nipples stand tight and furrowed, begging a caress. 

He reaches. Holds them. Studies how they weigh heavier underneath than where they slope below her shoulders. He massages them slowly, in circles, letting his thumbs wander and play. He tweaks them, one by one, watches the subtle jiggle, and then brings them in his hands again. He pushes them together until they make a deeper crease, and Tom stares. 

In the space of a breath, he imagines ploughing his girth through that valley, driving back and forth until the mounds drip with his spend. 

He releases them. Traces a gentle hand to the back of Hermione's neck. He thinks.

Tom grabs her nape with one hand and her cunt with the other, hauling the girl the rest of the way up the bed, and then descends.

Hermione scrambles back instinctively, but her legs are open, and her mouth is open too, small cavity whet with a pink tongue. When she hits the headboard, Tom reaches out and finds the edge of what remains of her smallclothes and hooks onto them with his fingers. He pulls.

The sharp tear of fabric disturbs the hush of the room.

Hermione pushes her legs farther outwards, knees to the mattress. She covers her eyes with her hands in a final act of humility, splayed. 

It's like the splitting of a ripe fruit.

Plump lips water at the seams. They glisten in want of a deep kiss, then part slowly to reveal the soft color of private flesh, inner folds unfurling, shy. With a shaky hand, Tom uses his thumb and forefinger to spread her wider. 

Fluid seeps out of the epicenter.

He cannot stop looking. 

The heady tang of want is thick and permeates the air. There is a desperate keening, an inarticulate sound as though rent from the back of a throat, as backdrop to his captivation. 

_Hermione,_ Tom thinks, and urgently lowers his arm to pin it against a fragile hipbone. To keep her still as he slips his spare hand over her slink, gathering it and dipping it back into her slit's clutch with his longest finger. 

Tight. Hot. Wet.

Tom works the finger into her pink. Feels the muscles clench around his digit when he adds a second. He probes at the slick, supple tissue and listens to the lewd squelch in fascination, then stretches her outer lips further, wanting to see it all. The heel of his hand falls to rest fully on her needful clit.

Hermione bucks and Tom has to lean forward, firm his hold to stay her. The angle has shifted and now Tom can see between her buttocks. He inserts another finger into her cunt, three of them now. Pushes in. Out. 

Over and over.

Watches as he touches her for the first time. The pucker of her arse contracts as if it too would have him. 

His hair, which he assiduously maintains, is hanging over his eyes. Tom tosses his head, irritated, focusing on frigging his Hermione into a wetter mess, coaxing as many of the sloppy sounds of suction from her grasping channel he can, the clench relaxing in supplication, sweet, only to grip him yet more fiercely, so hungry. Her other hole pulses in sympathetic rhythm, catching the moisture. 

_"Please,"_ Hermione mewls, and her face is crumpled, eyes shut tight. Tom sees tears gathering, wetting her lashes. The corners of her mouth are turned down in anguish. 

He loosens his hold on her but lets his fingers continue their slippery plunge, and he circles his thumb to pet her clit—beautiful pink bud set in the soft wet bloom of rose—which had lost its former pressure, soothing. He laps at where he fills her and stifles his growl, immediately drunk from its richness, and has his tongue take refuge tracing over the silken petals of her quim instead, lest he lose himself to madness. 

He lays the hand that had been keeping Hermione down over her belly.

There was never any yearning for such acts before; he had scorned them. But now, with Hermione—who Tom darkly knows is perfect—now, as her taut stomach quivers beneath him while he screws his fingers into her hole, he wishes to keep it full, so glutted that it is of no matter if his seed were to leak out and drip down her thighs as she perambulated the castle corridors, for he would give her more each day.

She said she would have him. 

Tom slides his fingers and tongue from her wet heat. Hermione, who had been in frenzy from his ministrations, hiccups, devastated by the loss. She rises onto her elbows to view him blearily, curls stuck to her temples. A tear sits on the precipice of a plunge down her heart-shaped face. 

"Tell me one last time, Hermione," Tom says as he shifts up her body. His cock skids heavily along her drenched hips and inner thighs until it catches against her slit, seeking. 

Tom cradles Hermione's face in his hands and watches the teardrop plummet down her cheekbone. 

"I would have you," she whispers. 

He kisses her, chaste. 

It is his first.

It is sweet.

Then, he takes hold of his member, guides it through those honeyed crenulations, and enters her beckoning embrace.

—

She is so wet that he sinks inside just past his cockhead, breaching her. The evidence of her want trickles out, startled, no space left for it, and Tom's pulled in again, an inch further.

Her tight cunt drags him in, insistent. 

"Hermione," he grits between his teeth, but she, silent, locks her ankles at the base of his spine and pulls to take him in, deep.

His cock cleaves into her. There is blood.

Tom collapses to his elbows. 

Hermione is a strung bow coming to meet him, the peaks of her breasts pressing to his chest as her nails sink into the muscles of his tensed back.

He's not yet fully sheathed; there is a bare inch or two left. He finds his voice is unrecognisable when he speaks. 

"Would you take it all, Hermione?" he asks, and he is guttural in want and warning. "Would you have me? Is it your intent?" 

"I would have you," she grinds out, and her fingers dig deeper into his flesh. "It is my will."

His cock twitches inside her; based on the gasp, Hermione feels it too. He punctuates it with a jab so she remembers it. 

He pulls his hips back, and his length drags along inside of her, electrifying. Hermione is moaning already, little wanton thing, beautiful girl, precious, fuck, _his._

Tom withdraws until the tip is just grazing her entrance. He feels her drip trail out with him. In his mind's eye, he can see it trickle out, sweet nectar pinked by a thread of scarlet. 

Using his grip on the body beneath him as leverage, he snaps in, hard. 

Hermione screams.

"Hermione," Tom pants. He swivels. "Mmm." 

He luxuriates in the decadent, tight heat. Her inner muscles latch around him, claiming, and he's wracked with sensation, intoxicated.

"You are exquisite," he breathes, and his eyes burn as they drink in Hermione's hooded lids, her lashes, the way her jaw goes slack. She is so beautiful; he cannot bear to look away.

They're sharing the same air now, panting into each other's mouths. Their tongues dart out to meet. The scant space between them grows hot and moist as he rocks his hips while they continue to kiss. 

He shifts a little, and when his cockhead nudges in impossibly deeper, Tom feels it butt against resistant flesh of a different texture from the sleek, glossy walls of her cunt.

 _Her womb,_ it dawns on Tom, and he groans, low. Jags into her even harder, his stones now mashed against the fold of her arsecheeks, cock rooting itself deep into her belly. 

He begins an earnest pump. 

"Ah—!" Hermione jolts. 

Tom laps at her lips, licks her teeth, pushes into the small cavern of her mouth. He kisses her, tongues twining, filthy, and then tears away to rasp for breath.

"So good, Hermione—you take it so well. Take it. Take it all. I'll give you what you want, you can have me, you're my _Favourite"_ —and he is fucking her, hard and unrelenting, hot and raw and wet. He can feel splashes from how much their ardor has wrought with every smack of his flesh against hers, their bodies reverberating from the impact.

Tom ruts.

"Have it—just—just fucking have it, I'll give it to you—"

 _"Yes,"_ Hermione moans under him. She's bent double now from being forced back by his desperation, slender legs hitched over Tom's elbows, ankles knocking. Color has flooded her fragile skin, warmed by pink and now mottled with marks like blossoms appearing from the snow; Tom's teeth scrape, tongue lashing in synchrony. Tom uses her shoulders to push her juddering body back against his cock. There will be bruises.

The wet noises—of balls slapping against skin, of a tight snatch taking its very first cock, of a prick whetted by the only pussy it ever needs—echo against the stone walls.

Hermione's curls tangle in a riotous halo around her. Her body jostles with Tom's thrusts as he slams into her dripping hole. Inside, her smooth contours clamp ever tighter around him, and Tom feels a hot coil begin low within himself. 

"Say my name," he urges, by Hermione's ear.

"M-my Lord—"

"Say it," he begs. His ballsack draws tight. "Say my name."

He realigns his thrusts. Tom mashes into her swollen bud every time he plunges in.

Hermione wails. She writhes on his cock and her channel viciously constricts around him, smacking against his girth in a single-minded rhythm. Her entire body convulses, and Tom must hold back lest he be overtaken—he's so close—

 _"Tom,"_ she cries, and Tom shudders, because it reverberates in his mind, clear and bright like every other time he had tried to block himself from it—

_Mine._

A snarl snags in his throat and his lips pull back, feral. 

"I'll give you everything," he promises, and he cums, deep inside her, erratic. His seed pulses into her again and again, filling her to the brim.

—

Tom melts into her open arms.

—

Tom does not mind the hours. Light insinuates itself into the chamber, harking the passage of night to a time not-yet day.

He chases the rivulets of his spilt seed with his fingers, feeding them back into her hole from behind. Hermione is on her side, head turned to watch Tom's efforts in keeping her full, eyes gleaming with the reflection of the hearth's embers. 

The second time they had joined, he laid Hermione on her stomach. He had propped her over the gathered covers and found he could fuck her deeper yet, and he relished in his Favourite's hitched sobs every time he plunged in as he spread her arsecheeks wide and stared, watching his cock push back into their shared spend. 

For the third, she had curled quiescently into his chest, hair tickling Tom's face as he moved her hips up and down. His hands had cupped her rear as he fucked into her cunt with a fingertip pressed sweetly against her pucker: an assurance for another day. 

Now, Tom's blood quickens anew. He settles on his side behind her and lifts one of her pliant legs back over his hip, entwining it with his own to spread her open. He enters her languidly from the back, the head of his cock pushing in through her slit with a soft pop. The shaft follows as an easy glide and squelch. Their mingled fluids leak out and trail down her skin once more, shining. He fucks her. 

He will want to see her face later as he puts her to sodden disarray and she, in turn, takes his pleasure from him for her own. But for now, he nuzzles into her hair, inhaling deeply their combined scent.

—

The idyll breaks just before the rest of the household stirs. 

_"Seven?!"_ Hermione shrieks, "Are you _mad?"_ and she is glaring at Tom as though he has committed the foulest of sins. 

She shoves at him from where she kneels on the bed. 

Tom dodges but keeps his place. She lands on her hands. Her plush little tits bounce.

He had been lounging back into his pillows with his arms folded over his chest, long legs straight in front of him. He moves now to brace himself on one hand, turning his torso to better drink in the sight of her on all fours.

"My love," he says, and Hermione immediately flushes a bright pink. She had uttered the phrase whilst marveling over his elegant, dexterous fingers and his lithe tongue, the broad shoulders upon which her knees had been tossed. 

"You would have ruined yourself," Hermione asserts from hands and knees—prostrate, but righteous in her indignation. "There would be nothing left." 

_"Love,"_ Tom addresses her again. He rolls the word in his mouth, tasting it. 

He smiles. 

"I have been remiss."

Tom takes leave of the bed and stands before her. 

"I haven't yet filled your mouth. You must feel deprived." 

Hermione sputters, but when Tom fists his prick and then proffers it to her, hard and weeping, she opens her mouth and takes him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol and it turns out Severus Snape: Steward, Physician, but also _Spymaster_ , was standing outside the bedchamber doors in the final scene. He is loyal to House Gaunt but had overheard the word 'Horcrux' and stopped to listen. He had not wanted to hear proof that his Lord had finally... _coupled._
> 
> —
> 
> And if anyone missed it during Tom's garden stroll with Snape, Tom's castle has an _array_ of dungeons (he oversaw the extensions himself). Scabior, who kidnapped Hermione and murdered her Muggle parents, will be one of the sacrifices when Tom and Hermione make the Horcruxes. In the meantime, Scabior's being kept in the section where people can literally go _shit on him._ Tom recommends his guests use the Southwest privy chambers for the view, but we know the real reason. That's how much he loves Hermione.
> 
> —
> 
> Regarding Age Difference and Power Imbalance tags: I wrote this thinking of Hermione around 16–17 (she's taken—cough, abducted—to Hogwarts at the age of 10–11) when she meets Tom, who's five years older and her Master. They don't have sex until she's spent over a year or more with him. Hermione is a late-bloomer physically; Tom is a late-bloomer emotionally. Tom is a condescending egotist, which is why POV describes Hermione in diminutives... she's not actually a little girl. The only unexaggerated thing is the size of Tom's penis, which _is_ that large—Tom hated looking at his erection until Hermione happened. 
> 
> Apologies for any language errors and/or historical inaccuracy. I could have picked at this more, but I wanted to move on to my other fic ideas. Please feel free to message me if there is some glaring technical issue you'd like to see rectified.
> 
> On noble titles: I know fuck-all about nobility. I whittled the writing so there are only feudal Lords and Ladies. In this world's time, there is no Crown or High Seat—but there was one in the past. In a longer story, Tom would explicitly seek it. Here, it is only alluded to through his search for Salazar Slytherin's secrets. Chapter 2 explains more.
> 
> —
> 
> There may be drabbles and shorter one-shots in the future. If so, I will post them as separate works within a series under this story's title.


	2. Afterword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter provides background information on characterization and worldbuilding for anyone interested.

In this world, Thralls are basically elevated companion slaves or courtesans, stationed somewhere above servants and merchants but below the nobility. They are invaluable in providing heirs when Heads of Houses wish to strengthen their line.1 Consequently, Thralls are handled with a certain level of esteem, and some Families use them as status symbols (cough, the Malfoys are The Most). Thralls receive a magical education due to concern around Obscurials, but their education level is below that of the nobles, and they are restricted in their use of spells. They don’t have formal rights (they are taken from their parents at a young age; they are expected to entertain their Masters; when they take part in a magical child's conception, they surrender any claim of parentage to the Family) but it is considered in poor taste to harm them. 

Tom only loosely follows these social strictures in his ownership of Hermione.

Tom's personality and behavior in this story lean on the alteration of what I consider some key character-defining moments in canon: His mother didn't die conceiving him, so he has witnessed trace amounts of care and devotion (as far as I understand, noble moms didn't actually spend much time with their kids in the Middle Ages. But it's still Merope, and I imagine her being sweet, or at least wishing she could be). He grew up in a notable family, so there is nothing special about being a "Lord." Since he depends less on others for his own elevation, he is a misanthrope who meets the bare minimum of social niceties unless it benefits him. 

He is still ambitious and prone to psychopathy and megalomania, but it manifests in less externally noticeable ways within the context of an unpleasant pseudo-medieval universe. His peers are also fucked up, so his selfishness, lack of empathy, and baggage from being isolated in an unhappy environment fit right in with them (the Weasleys are an anomaly, as were the Potters, once upon a time). He still thinks he is special—which he is—and separates himself from his contemporaries with an individually-crafted code fueled by his intellectual pursuits and revulsion for anything that reminds him of his predatory Uncle Morfin. 

Regardless of _this_ story, the Tom I often imagine is the sort of psycho who can murder without compunction but does not abide physical rape. With that said, he is also an egotist, exceptionalist, and ever-unreliable narrator, so his opinion on what constitutes consent is dubious (cough, Legilimency). He couldn't care less about sex unless it serves a purpose, or his pride requires that he develop a certain level of mastery. 

My Tom battles his unique high-mindedness with his—gasp—earthly desires and _feelings_ through a frigid countenance masking the fact that he is a melodramatic inferno.2 I see how others depict him as a promiscuous, power-hungry sybarite or a stone cold bastard—I've read a lot of stories like these, for Hermione/Tom is one of the many trash-ships in my fleet with which I will sink—but _this_ Tom thinks himself the sort of _~scholar and visionary~_ who is above such "base acts" that would impede him from his grand designs.

In this world, Uncle Morfin's behavior toward his mother Merope turns Tom off from sex and anything having to do with it, like, a lot. That, and his lonely upbringing—though he would never describe it that way—means Hermione is very confusing for him (and the term for demisexuality hasn't been invented yet in this medieval universe).

I like to imagine Tom and Hermione are both prude/not-prudes: they're disgusted by those who revel in the open discussion of sex, but they also disdain anyone who can't talk about it with a straight face; after all, it's a fact of life.

(Though Hermione blushes a lot, and Tom—well, he is brilliant, but not very good with _hormones.)_

They are actually quite depraved, but only with each other. _~Because they're special.~_

—

I began this one-shot since I had so many ideas of how this trash-ship would have sex and wanted to write a florid historical scene where they lose their virginities to one another, but then I got distracted, and then I tossed everything, so here it is as smut with a backstory.

What is left unwritten is that through Tom allowing Hermione to maintain a close connection with Harry (an Unclaimed orphan Thrall of questionable parentage from a once-esteemed House that fell) and Ron (youngest son of a Family noble only in name), his circumstantial exposure to people with whom he wouldn't otherwise consort catalyze new, more enlightened (but still self-serving) conclusions of worth and blood. 

He's changed by Hermione et. al.'s unique facets: brilliance and earned devotion from a Hermione who _thinks_ she is good; ludicrous amounts of raw magical power from a cynical but inherently kind-hearted Harry; and the tenacious loyalty and shrewdness of a noble Ron, the youngest of the poor Weasley sons.3

There would be duels and hand-to-hand combat. Tom would invent spells, and so would Hermione. There would be elf-magic (Harry and Hermione would smuggle an elf away from the Malfoys, and Tom would be _pissed,_ because now he has a fucking _Malfoy elf_ in his castle). Multi-faceted Draco (why won't Harry look at _him,_ not stupid Hermione? Draco will use the elf as an excuse to harangue Harry even more than he did at Hogwarts) and friends. 

There would be Regulus and Remus united in their search for the prodigal Sirius, heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Snape having The Feels when he sees Harry for the first time and railing at Dumbledore about the boy's circumstances. Loaded conversations with the Notts about genealogy. 

There would be a scene where Tom lets Hermione accompany him to his mother's grave but doesn't answer her questions about the unmarked patch next to it (the patch contains his father, who was not a normal Thrall, but a _Muggle)._

All this and more would crystallize Tom's drive to dismantle what he sees as a broken social system.4

HOWEVER. This is my first-ever attempt at fanfiction—which is probably why I was compelled to include this whole sidebar—and I Just Cannot(TM). I have a few sex scene ideas based in this world but don't plan anything multi-chapter, so if anyone wants to pick this up, here it is with a bow on top. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I imagine nobles in this world adapted a sort of jus primae noctis with lower born witches and wizards when they realized, "Whoa! Magical babies are way more viable this way than having sex with Cousin So-and-So," and created the Thrall system. This will get buried in time, and centuries later, some snotty pure-blood kid will be sniffing about how _refined_ their heritage is, etcetera. [back]
> 
> 2\. Tell me Tom Riddle doesn't rehearse his victory speeches before he falls asleep. Tell me. [back]
> 
> 3\. I love Ron. This story would highlight facets of canon First-Year Ron's potential that I was so excited about when I read HP Book 1 for the first time: a friendly boy prone to bouts of temper; a budding tactician who implicitly understands pyrrhic victory, willing to take a blow for his people; a deep desire to stand out from his family but also care for them the way they do him. [back]
> 
> 4\. It _is_ broken, but his new order wouldn't be that much better without Hermione in his life—besides his intent to formally abolish rape, which is a big deal. But he'd probably think only certain people should have children, and that they should be paired up based on compatibility, which is—hm. This is what I mean about his notions of consent. Tom seems to me like the sort of person who'd go off the deep-end with eugenics and then surface with no concept of free will for anyone but himself when left to his own devices. [back]
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
